


Piece of Mind

by SnackerJack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnackerJack/pseuds/SnackerJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about a man named Castiel Novak and his trench coat.</p><p>A Stranger Than Fiction crossover featuring pies baked by an ex-Marine, a certain tax auditor learning of his impending death, and a mostly-drunk narrator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slashmyheartandhopetoporn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmyheartandhopetoporn/gifts).



> This is for one of the best fandom friends to have, who came up with the idea and put out a call for someone to write it over on tumblr. It's only taken me.... well... consider this a combined birthday/Christmas present for the past three years. :) Thanks for the idea, and I hope where we end up is everything you originally envisioned!
> 
> Charge!

For the past nine years, Castiel Novak had followed more or less the same routine. It was a solid schedule, something he’d carefully worked out until the days slid by with barely a passing notice. Predictable. Simple.

His alarm went off each weekday at five forty-five, but he never extracted himself from the sheets before six. This left just enough time to shower, dress, and utilize his admittedly poor culinary skills to toast himself a bagel. A glass of water joined in, ostensibly because he knew about something important called hydration. The last half of it always seemed to end up in the various potted plants crowding for space amongst the piles of books.

Last came his trench coat, making a half-hearted attempt to button it against the wind tunnel of the city streets. Half-hearted, because he’d learned years ago that no matter how tightly he cinched the buttons and tied the belt, it would be for nothing by the time he reached the bus stop. He should have gotten a replacement, something more befitting, but he’d never quite been able to bring himself to do it. His favourite siblings had given it to him shortly before the family had splintered, and it was one of the last things he had of them. It could hang open all it wanted. It had become part of his armor against more than just the elements.

A five minute wait for the bus, which was almost always late, and a twelve-minute ride to the financial district, a journey during which he tried not to stare at anything except his own hands. Gabriel had told him once that ‘the stare’ was off-putting to some people. He’d put it off as one of those big-brother-lies at first, a Gabriel Special, but then a few years back he’d caught sight of a little boy staring back, lip quivering, and he’d had to change busses or risk seeing tears.

Castiel had also been told that he had the social skills of a robot. He was sort of inclined to believe that one.

From the bus stop to the twelfth floor of the IRS building, nodding absently left and right at coworkers and moving on before he could see if they nodded back. He was well-known in this branch for a multitude of things, from the way he handled every case with a laser focus to the whispers about his influential family. They thought he didn’t notice the way they watched him, but he did. Castiel noticed plenty. It came from being the youngest in a large family.

The day would pass without incident, as much as was possible for a senior tax auditor. This was perhaps the only profession in which his social problems and the strict sense of right and wrong helped instead of hindered: he was unmoved by shouting and threats and begging and all the things that came with it.

He took his meals mostly alone, at the cafeteria or from take-out places near his apartment, and ate them outside when he could. There was a particular park bench that he occupied whenever the weather allowed, because for some reason that he couldn’t figure out, it was more acceptable to people-watch from a park bench than from a bus seat or a restaurant table.  And Castiel was fascinated by people, despite any so-called robot skills

The IRS took ten hours of his life per day. More sometimes, though this was less to do with responsibility to family expectations and more because he didn’t like to leave loose ends. Working until his current case was finished was a small price to pay when it meant he could come in the next morning to a clear slate. A tiny restart when he couldn’t bring himself to pull a restart on a much larger scale. This practice still left him enough time to return to his apartment and prepare dinner, which he ate while listening to NPR, and then he would read until bed. Simple. Easy. It was what he did, what was expected of him, and if it wasn’t what he _enjoyed_ , he was… all right with it.

Well. He wasn’t _unhappy_. A little lonely, maybe, since Gabriel and Anna had disappeared. Irritated for the same reason. But mostly…lonely. Still, if anyone had asked, he would have insisted that he was just fine. He had his books, he was very good at what he did, and he was still in contact with most of his family. Surely that was all he needed.

And then everything changed, and he realized that he hadn’t had anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_~~This is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. Okay. Let’s do this.~~ _

Castiel blinked awake.

His bedroom was empty. The voice he’d heard—thought he’d heard—was nothing but a fading memory of some dream. He put it out of mind and sat up, waiting until the very last moment to leave the cocoon of down blankets. Another morning ritual, one he’d indulged in since he was just a child.

_Castiel Novak was a lonely man. Not through any fault of his own, but because circumstances had—_

He froze.  The man’s voice stopped as well, so completely that it might never had been there at all.

It took him longer than he’d admit to anyone to start moving again, easing a foot out of his cocoon and setting it down on the floor. And then—

_\--but because circumstances had conspired to leave him with nothing except--_

He jerked back into the cover cocoon. His heel hadn’t even touched the ground. “Hello?”

There was a resounding silence.

“Is someone there?”

He would have been embarrassed to admit how long he sat there talking to the empty air, if he had planned on ever telling anyone about it. Finally, he set his foot down again and made his way to the bathroom, shoulders hunched as the voice continued to fill his ears, relentless.

_\--except the bare bones of relationships and he wasn’t skilled enough to put them together. This wasn’t his fault either; he was a naturally awkward man, with ~~practically none  fuck already?~~ little-to-no social skills. Most of his current interactions were the result of his job or his family situation, neither of which he really enjoyed._

Castiel froze again, midway through reaching for the shower tap. There had been something half-garbled and exasperated there in the middle, but it was still fully comprehensible and he’d heard more than enough to know that he didn’t like it. “Excuse me,” he tried, and then faltered.  What, exactly, was he supposed to say to a disembodied voice that may or may not have been inside his head?  Please leave? Stop talking? Go away?

“Is someone there?” he asked again, voice rising despite himself. He thought he could be excused for the little hint of panic the showed up along the edges.

It was the quickest and most paranoid shower of his life.

The voice popped back up at the same time as his bagel was popping out of the toaster.

 _After all, no one really_ liked _being a tax auditor, even if they were good at numbers—he was—and connecting pieces of a puzzle—he was—. Just because he was able to deal with upset people every day didn’t mean that he enjoyed it. ~~Just because~~_

_Never mind that it was a family business of sorts, and it made very good money. If you’d had the kind of family that Castiel did, you wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with the business either._

“ _Excuse_ me?” Castiel said again, considerably more indignant than the last time. There was a tiny twinge of unease down in the pit of his stomach—how had the voice known that? “Who are you?”

It wasn’t a voice that he recognized; it wasn’t self-possessed enough to be any of his cousins or brothers. He didn’t have friends who knew him anywhere well enough to be able to do something like this. He didn’t really have friends, period.

He left the bagel in the toaster and went through the living room, pausing here and there to upturn a couch cushion, to look behind a pile of books, to pour through the contents of his drawered end table.  Ten minutes later, he was left with the biggest mess of his apartment since he’d moved in and no answers.

_This particular morning, Castiel broke his routine._

“Of course I have,” he told the air, frustration mounting. “Because you’re here! Where _are you_?”

_He became distracted as he went through his ~~morning~~ rituals and spent so much time going through his bare living space looking for some sort of sign that he lost all chances of ever making his bus, and therefore his meeting with his supervisor._

Castiel’s head snapped toward the clock, which stoically informed him that he was seven minutes later than he usually was. He wasn’t much inclined to swearing, but he did so now, fleeing the apartment and the voice with something akin to sheer relief.

The bus was already a block gone by the time he made the stop, and rather than chase after it with his trenchcoat flapping behind him, he resigned himself to catching the next one. Michael would have to wait.

_What Castiel didn’t know was that missing his bus was nothing compared to the events that were about to change his entire life. ~~Wow, melodramatic.~~_

He swiveled, and when no one else on the street reacted beyond eyeing him and shuffling to either side, looked up very slowly.

“…God?”

~*~

“Carver Edlund? Is Carver Edlund he- _what are you doing_?”

Chuck, who had been precariously half-balanced on the fire escape for the past five minutes, let out a yelp.  He twisted, caught the corner of his ratty bathrobe on a protruding nail and left a strip of fabric behind as he crashed onto the floor of his apartment.

The intruder, a young woman clutching a bright pink five-star binder and a stack of equally-bright purple Post-its, stared down at him critically.  “Are you… Chuck?”

Chuck raised an arm from the rug and waved. Maybe she was here to put him out of his misery. “Who are you?”

She shifted the binder in her arms and hauled him to his feet with a grip like steel.  She looked him up and down, perfectly plucked eyebrows high. “You’re not really what I expected.”

“Story of my life,” Chuck grumbled, pushing past her and making a beeline for his Irish coffee on the counter. It was more Irish than coffee. It was also cold.

She followed him, cleared a space in the clutter, and set her armload down.  “I’m Becky,” she said, beginning to offer him a handshake, and then clearly thinking better of it.  “Your publisher hired me to be your new assistant.”

Chuck racked his mind for whatever meeting he’d been bullied into where he could have _possibly_ agreed to this. “Uh,” he said.

“Your sounding board,” Becky said, unzipping her binder with quick and practiced motions. “Your—“ she struck a pose, “ _muse_.”

“I thought assistants filed papers,” Chuck said as he reached first for the coffeepot, then for the whiskey. “I don’t need a muse—hey!”

She set his stolen coffee cup on a stack of books behind her. “That’s not what your editor says.  He says that if you’re going to make this genre-jump mean anything, you’re going to have to start producing something in the next couple of months. And that _I_ am your best bet!”

Chuck stared mournfully at his now-out-of-reach coffee.

“Well,” she said, “I volunteered.” Her professional demeanor broke and she bounced in place. “I _loved_ your urban fantasy series, I’m a _huge_ fan—“

He forwent the coffee entirely and reached for the bottle.

~*~

“Castiel!”

He jolted before he realized that he actually recognized this voice, enough of a startle that other people looked up briefly before returning to their desks. “Sam.”

Sam Winchester was one of the only people that Castiel spent time with, a giant of a man with a smile that brightened even the grey cubicles of the IRS offices. Sam was a lawyer, notoriously sharp and well-respected despite his youth. They’d worked on several cases together, bonded over a fondness for books and facts, and Sam dropped by Castiel’s office every time he was on the floor to say hello, or to recommend a new book. He was one of the closest things Castiel had to a friend.

Sam could help.

_Castiel reached out and caught the younger man by the arm. Sam was tall and well-built under the suit—_

Castiel let go so fast he thought he might have strained his fingers.

\-- _and_ _although he wasn’t Castiel’s type, it was ~~hard~~ —impossible to not appreciate him in a purely-aesthetic way._

He bit off a groan successfully, but he couldn’t hide the tinge of red that threatened to overtake his ears.

“Castiel?”

He gathered himself. “Did you hear that?”

Sam glanced around, bent closer.  “Hear…what?”

_Sam, for his part, had always been friendly to Castiel, looking past the social missteps and—_

“That,” Castiel said, making an aborted motion to the ceiling.  Sam’s eyes flicked up, and Castiel felt patently ridiculous even before Sam shook his head. Surely Sam would have said something if he’d heard himself being described by a scratchy voice that came from nowhere.

“What’s going on, man?”

_\--missteps and covering for him during awkward lunch meetings. Castiel was much fonder of Sam than anyone else at the company, family members included._

The water cooler was very interesting. He focused all of his attention there, but Sam remained where he was, looking at him like he just wanted to help. It was one of Sam’s greatest, and currently most annoying, qualities. He was a very, very good lawyer. “I’m hearing a voice,” he said, and when Sam shifted and made an encouraging noise, went on, “and it knows more than I think it should.”

“A voice,” Sam said, and Castiel was very grateful that Sam’s undoubtedly expensive law school had taught him to keep calm in the face of burgeoning insanity.  “What sort of voice?”

Castiel waited, but of course, the voice remained silent.  “A man’s voice. Drunk, I think. He slurs. And he knows—“ he lowered his voice instinctively as a pair of secretaries walked by “—things. About me.”

“H-uh. Well,” Sam hurried on as Castiel started to withdraw, “I don’t know, man. Someone might be playing a trick on you. My older brother’s done a lot worse than a mystery voice.”

Castiel’s mind flashed instantly to Gabriel. But no, although Gabriel would have done something just like this, he was also long gone. There was no one else that might have gone to the trouble.  He did not say this, though, only, “Doubtful.”

Sam went to rub his chin and halted before he could smack himself in the face with the files he carried.  “I’ll look some stuff up if you want. I used to specialize in researching weird—uh, _interesting_ things. Call it a hobby.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” Castiel said—

\-- _although he couldn’t help but feel grateful and it came out in his voice._

He spun around, but succeeded only in drawing the side-eyes of his coworkers. “Are you _sure_ you don’t hear that?”

Sam watched him turn in place, and then down at the files in his hand. One was significantly thinner than the other one, and he held that one out with a sympathetic, “Maybe you should take this one this week.”

Castiel took it, with another distrustful glance around, and opened it. A bakery. Simple.

_~~Little did he know.~~ _

He nodded his thanks to Sam, put his hands over his ears, and left the office as fast as he could without running.

~*~

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

Castiel offered the papers again, and tried very hard not to be distracted by the green eyes staring at him. It helped that they were full of fury, and the man who owned them seemed like he’d like nothing better than to break the kneecaps of any unfortunate tax auditor nearby. Castiel, having no wish to become that particular tax auditor, held the papers adamantly higher and let his gaze drift.

 _Crossroads_ was, for all intents and purposes, a bakery. It smelled like dough and coffee and cookies and whatever was currently in the oven. A long counter boasted pies and cakes and chocolates, rows of cupcakes and Danishes. The front door swung open regularly, admitting new people and ushering out everyone else, bellies full and clutching pastry boxes against the wind. But then… the similarities ended.

The walls were bare brick, vintage concert posters prominent amidst a background of show tickets, guitars, and album artwork. Classic rock [played in the background](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8tKN8pfWQs), just soft enough to not interrupt the conversational chatter. Tables crowded under the dim lighting in no particular order as customers rearranged things as needs became apparent. Leather couches lined the walls, every one of them occupied. There was a dog in one corner in a worn bed, and another under a table at its owner’s feet. Customers sang along to the classic rock emanating from a truly impressive sound system. The pastry boxes were black and printed with band logos and, oddly enough, occult symbols. A collection of framed tickets citing noise complaints and speeding tickets hung proudly on the wall behind the cash register.

Despite the clutter, the memorabilia, and the sheer number of people, it was spotless.

“Fuck,” said Dean Winchester, who still hadn’t taken the papers. “Really? Son of a _bitch_.”

“My parents were legitimately married when they had me,” Castiel asserted, jiggling the papers hopefully.

There was a long pause. “Who the hell are you?”

“Castiel Novak. I am a senior tax auditor for the IRS.”

Dean, who had finally reached for the papers, froze with his hand outstretched. “Castiel? _You’re_ Castiel?”

Castiel nodded, somewhat baffled.

“You’re fucking joking.”

“I don’t joke,” Castiel assured him. “It’s not legal.”

“Well, _you’re…_ not legal,” Dean said, ending on a half-wince.  He gathered himself and stomped his way over to the counter to restock the towers of coffee cups by the register. The blonde girl helping a customer shot him a look but rolled her eyes and moved aside with the ease of long practice.

Castiel followed, too-aware of the eyes on them.  “If we could sit and talk—“

Dean’s thumb popped up, angled back over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Smell that? That’s apple pie in the oven. Not. Abandoning. The pie. We talk here.” His voice was low, almost a dare.

“You haven’t paid part of your taxes,” Castiel said, and instantly felt better. This was familiar ground. He was used to this part. This was the ‘you must be mistaken’ part, or perhaps the ‘I swear I sent that in, I promise I did,’ or maybe even the ‘oh god, I’m going to jail, I’m so sorry’ spiel.

“Yeah,” Dean said on a shrug, “I know.”

“What,” Castiel said.

“I’m at 72%,” said Dean, “and that’s all you’re gonna get, man.”

Castiel stared, personal rules forgotten. “I don’t understand,” he said, when it became clear that Dean wasn’t going to elaborate. “You seem to have a successful business. Are you having trouble breaking even?”

Dean bristled—

_\--like a ruffled ~~dog~~ cat, and Castiel felt a moment of panic—_

“Oh no,” Castiel had enough time to say—

_\--upon realizing that the other man was incredibly attractive even when ~~pissed off~~ fuming._

“ _What?_ ”

Dean froze, still tense all over, some of the belligerence fading in confusion. “What?” he echoed.

_Castiel couldn’t answer. Couldn’t answer because the way Winchester held himself made it clear that even though he spent his life among baked goods, he was built more like a soldier than what Castiel had always thought of as the classic pastry chef’s physique. Broad shoulders filled out the Led Zeppelin shirt l ~~ike it was their job~~ and from the glimpse he’d gotten before Dean had retreated behind the counter, the jeans hadn’t been lacking either. _

He rallied. “Why haven’t you paid your taxes, Mr. Winchester?” The desperation was mostly hidden. He thought. He hoped.

Dean reached out and snatched the papers, setting them down almost instantly out of Castiel’s reach. “I refuse to pay for something I don’t believe in.”

“That’s now how the system works,” Castiel informed him, relaxing slightly as the voice stayed quiet. “If you don’t pay your full—“

A timer in the back went off, and Dean held up a finger, too close to Castiel’s nose to be polite, and went to rescue his pie.

The girl at the register, pretty and dark-eyed, shot him an unsympathetic look. “You drew the wrong straw with this case.”

“It was supposed to be easy,” he said, more to himself than to her.

She laughed at him, but not unkindly.

When Dean—Mr. Winchester, Castiel insisted to himself on a losing battleground—came back, dishtowel slung over one shoulder, he lost no time getting right back up in Castiel’s face, leaning across the counter and glaring. “Look man, taxes for kids to go to school? Fine. Paying to fix the roads? Cool, whatever. I don’t have a problem paying for a little old lady’s hip replacement. I have a problem paying for shit that never makes it to help the people that really need it. I have a problem with all the corruption in the system. So I just don’t pay that part.”

_Dean’s eyes snapped, green green green in the warm lighting of the bakery. Even now, with less anger and more conviction, they were captivating. Castiel had always had a weakness for eyes, fully believing in the old saying that they were the window to the soul. He thought now that Dean Winchester probably had a very pure soul. ~~Oh god this is corny help.~~_

“I don’t understand,” Castiel said, trying valiantly to ignore it and focus. Except now he didn’t want to make eye contact, too afraid that Dean would see something there.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Look,” he said, “I make a good living. I pay taxes for things I can’t change myself. But stuff I can do? I can donate right to veterans who need help. I can put in for equipment for that farm outside the city. I can leave all my leftover pastries at the homeless shelters. You think I keep it for me?” He laughed, and Castiel found himself fully agreeing with the voice in his head for the first time. He was in trouble. “I don’t need it. Not when I can do stuff right here without letting it go through the red tape hell that is our government.”

“That’s… an admirable thought,” Castiel admitted, and watched as the side of Dean’s mouth twitched. “But that’s not how the system is supposed to work.”

Dean rested his elbows on the counter, made a little beckoning gesture with a chocolate-smeared finger.

_There was a ~~lot~~ fast growing ~~l~~ ist of things Castiel would like to do with Dean Winchester, and it took another massive jump in numbers at this, the new items heavily featuring Dean’s hands and food. _

Castiel’s mouth went dry, but he obeyed, carefully laying his hands on the glass counter and leaning over a selection of meringues.

Dean followed the motion until they were barely more than a few inches apart. “I got some news for you Castiel Novak. The system sucks.”

~*~

“A baker.” Uriel was unimpressed. Then again, not much could impress Uriel. “Your current project is a baker?”

Castiel nodded, tapping away at his keyboard. Not particularly fast, but he made absolutely no errors as he transferred information from file to file. Busy-work, but something that had to done by someone.

_This efficiency came from a history of research and reading and two internships for a religions teacher who required exactness in every aspect of life, from translations to a ~~tight-wound~~ minutely-planned schedule. It had been difficult work but enjoyable, and the subject matter had been more than worth the hassle. He’d been on the verge of getting a degree in religious studies but then—_

Castiel’s fingers slipped. The account he was working on plunged $12,000 into fraud. He righted the numbers carefully, aware that Uriel had focused in on him with a hawk’s laser precision.

\-- _then there had been family obligations. Family obligations where the ‘family’ was a whole network of high-powered executives and specialists, and the ‘obligations’ were a need to not let the youngest son go astray. Castiel had never stood a chance._

He stood, his desk chair shooting back on its wheels to hit the wall. “Enough,” he said, heart pounding in his ears. “ _Enough_.”

“Castiel?” Uriel asked.

Papers, paperclips, pens, he swept it all into his briefcase in a jumble, reached for his coat before his other hand had even finished snapping it shut. “I need to go,” he said. He couldn’t stay here and listen to that voice on top of Uriel’s faint tone of ‘you could be doing better’.

“You seem upset,” Uriel said.  “Are you…. Hearing something?”

Castiel froze for the umpteenth time that day. A brief flare of panic rose, quickly matched with irritation—could you talk about anything at this office without someone overhearing and spreading gossip? “No,” he said, forcing himself to slow down a bit. “I’m not hearing anything. It’s just that it’s five o’clock, and I have things to do outside this cubicle.”

On went the coat, settling onto his shoulders with comforting familiarity. Uriel’s eyes followed the motion and Castiel felt a moment of uncharacteristic mean satisfaction. Uriel and Zachariah had both tried to get him to give up the coat for something more stylish, but he’d held onto it, stubborn. Anna and Gabriel might have meant the coat as a joke initially, but over the years it had become anything but.

“Perhaps, cousin,” Uriel said as Castiel went to the door, “you would benefit from prayer and time at the church. It might settle your mind.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel agreed, and held the door as Uriel walked out. Maybe he would. What else could he do? He didn’t want to go to a therapist; he was certain he wasn’t mentally ill and he hadn’t had the best of luck with them in the past. Surely this sort of thing didn’t just… happen?

He _would_ go to church, he decided as he boarded the bus. And then possibly he would do some research of his own. And he would absolutely not spend any time thinking about Dean Winchester.

_Castiel sat down next to a teenager with rainbow-coloured hair and let the bus carry him away. The teenager looked at him and just as quickly looked away, uninterested. He might have ~~been more interested aw damn it~~  taken a longer look if he’d known that he was sitting next to a man who wouldn’t live throughout the year._

Castiel shot to his feet and immediately lost his balance as the bus accelerated. The teenager shuffled to the side to avoid a flailing hand, indignation flashing across his face. Castiel paid no attention. “ _What_?”

~*~

Dean Winchester closed _Crossroads_ early that day. As soon as the lights were off and the door shut and double-locked, he made for the Impala parked around back. It was a short trip to Sam’s house in the near suburbs, and a shorter matter of picking the lock.

He had a key. He just knew that the little scratches that came from jimmying the door open would make that pissy little furrow appear between Sam’s eyebrows.

When Sam got home twenty minutes later, he found Dean sprawled on the couch, one hand scratching the dog behind the ears, the other making swift work of the braised scallops he’d been looking forward to all day.

Dean looked up, grinned through a mouthful. It wasn’t friendly. “Hey Sammy. Let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {You might have noticed that Chuck's narration is a lot more halting and full of exasperation/swearing/notes to self than his movie counterpart's. Because it's Chuck, and we know that he thinks writing is _hard_. Any text with a strikethrough are words that he's written down but then discarded. Castiel hears them anyway. Because yes.}
> 
> {In keeping with the movie, which has a great soundtrack, there will eventually be a full playlist posted up on 8tracks. In the interest of keeping chapters neat and non-distracting though, I'm currently linking only to songs specifically playing in-fic.}
> 
> {[tumblr](perianfrost.tumblr.com)}


End file.
